


Nature vs. Nurture

by Susana Rosa (SusanaR)



Series: Desperate Hours Alternative Universe (DH AU) D version [23]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Backstory, Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Humor, Original Character(s), Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/pseuds/Susana%20Rosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir is an odd mixture of Finduilas, Denethor's upbringing, and perhaps a bit of Aragorn. But sometimes, it is very clear to the King, that Faramir is very much his mother's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But, I've

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sometime during Year 5 of the Fourth Age, or thereabouts, or in other words, about a year since Aragorn found out that Faramir is his son. Faramir has known for over five years.
> 
> Chapter Summary: Faramir has a lot of work to do.

Faramir had been reviewing a list of numbers that just didn’t make sense to him. That was the last thing he remembered. Then his shoulder was being shaken, very gently. He looked up to realize that he’d fallen asleep on his desk, and that his father was apparently up quite early this morning.

“Ion-nin. Go to bed.” Aragorn commanded gently, his gray eyes filled with exasperated fondness.

“But, I’ve got to…” Faramir began, knowing there was a long list of things he’d meant to do before the King awoke.

“Bed. Now. Unless you want a warmed bottom to speed you on your way.” Aragorn said, voice kind but edging into stern.

“The numbers aren’t right…” Faramir murmured distractedly, as he got up and yawned.

Aragorn smacked his son and steward’s backside lightly, more noise than force. “Bed, ion-nin. This is your last warning. I looked at that list before I woke you up. Even excluding the column you drooled on during your nap, you’re right that something is off. I’ll have my accountant or yours look at it this morning, and we can speak of it this afternoon. If the accountants don’t find anything, we’ll hand it off to Dev or Ethiron, or Elladan when he gets back. May I remind you again that you don’t have to do everything yourself; just flag an issue and hand it off to someone else. But you do need to sleep, and you obviously didn’t, last night.”

A year ago Faramir would have argued, but now he just yawned and nodded. Bed sounded good, even if Éowyn and the children were still at Emyn Arnen.

“I’ll wake you for lunch, Fara-nin.” Aragorn said fondly. “Although if you can’t fall asleep, I have some petitions you can read…”

Faramir chuckled tiredly as he left. He didn’t think that would be necessary.


	2. An Impulse Not to be Denied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas rarely tries to fight her impulses, when they seem right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes back in time some three decades, it takes place when Aragorn (as Thorongil) is in Gondor, a little over a year after Denethor marries Finduilas, and before she is pregnant with Boromir.
> 
> Chapter Warning for scenes of extreme violence in a nightmare

Images, fleeting like clouds over the surface of water… like visions in the mirror of the Lady of the Golden Wood. Men, enslaved and dying. Children, roasting on a fire tended by yrch. White marble buildings cracked and burnt… save one arch over a river. Everywhere, an all-seeing, terrifying presence… victorious at first… and then saddened, mourning. Total control over Middle Earth had not brought it the perfect order it had always desired, since before even the Powers of Arda entered the world, since before Iluvatar’s children awoke and joined the song.

Finduilas awoke with a start. Such dreams had long ago lost the power to wring screams from her, though her heart beat fast and her eyes were filled with fear and sorrow. She took a deep breath and closed her gray-green eyes, counting to ten. Then she got out of her soft bed, took off the warm gray velvet dressing gown that still held her husband’s scent, and reached for a shift and dress.

If Denethor had been here, he would have awoken with her, his observant eyes filled with sympathy and sorrow for the “gift” she’d never asked for, the visions that came to her night and day. He could have distracted her, his strong, calloused hands incredibly tender and gentle, his gray eyes glowing with joy as he kindled a delicious ache in her, one that only he could satisfy. If she had insisted on leaving, insisted on researching right now why it was that Sauron’s minions might have avoided burning a building over water, Denethor might well have turned her over his knee. Not for a sincere spanking, but one meant to interest her in other things, take her mind off of the horrors she’d seen. If Denethor had been here, he would have distracted her, and she would have been able to go back to sleep. If she were lucky, she would have been able to write down her idea… yrch dislike water… in the bound journal by her bedside, before her husband distracted her entirely.

But Denethor was gone, on patrol with his men. Gone these past many weeks, and unlikely to return for another few days, at least. Some husbands of only a few years would cut short their duties to Gondor, to return to their waiting bride. But not her husband, and she wouldn’t want that of him. It would be… untrue to the nature of her stern, dedicated lord, and she loved Denethor as he was. Oh, she feared for him, too. Feared where his dedication and inability to bend might someday lead him. But she wouldn’t want him to leave his duties half-done just because she was lonely.

Dressed in a comfortable but fine green gown over a shift of pearlescent gray, Finduilas chose soft boots instead of fine slippers, and a warm black cloak against the chill of the early spring night. She paused passing through the main room of their chambers, hesitating in thought. After a moment, she went and slipped quietly into the bedroom belonging to her younger lady-in-waiting. Finduilas did not even have to wake Sion, the blond great-niece of the old Lord of Anfalas was already blinking awake at the soft sounds of her lady’s passage. Sion’s pale blue eyes blinked, and she looked at Finduilas and smiled, shaking her head. Quickly dressed with her lady’s assistance, Sion accompanied Finduilas down through the hidden tunnels which led from the Citadel down to the archives.

“You’re almost as bad as my Adar was, my Lady, with your waking in the night to chase down some idea amongst books which were old when our ancestors were young.” Sion jested lightly, cheerfully helping Finduilas to gather the necessary volumes.

“I’m sure you were a boon to him, my clever Sion.” Finduilas praised, “I would never have thought of this memoir, but the second Lord of the Pelennor did indeed fight in the War of the Last Alliance, helping Princes Aratan and Ciryon to hold Minas Ithil. They fought in and around the Anduin, at times. There may be something…”

“That Lord of the Pelennor was probably their cousin-by-law.” Sion reminded her lady and friend, “the husband of their uncle Anarion’s daughter, Princess Inkeri.”

The two ladies worked on as dawn lit the windows of the small side gallery in the archives, adjacent to the garden and to the hidden entrance to the Citadel from which they had come. Finduilas did not feel the lack of an archivist’s aid this night, for Sion had been her father’s only child, and he had been the old Chief Archivist. After his death, Sion had been raised by her aunt his sister, and had spent many happy hours with the men and women on the staff of the new Chief Archivist, her father’s protegee, in the course of which she had learned much from them. Sion might have even chosen to become an archivist, save that her great-uncle had been a traditionalist who did not approve of the nobility taking up trade, and one of his dying wishes had been to see Sion placed into service with the new Steward’s lady. Fortunately, Sion and Finduilas got along well.

But Sion was still more aware of mundane, temporal concerns than her dear Lady Finduilas. “Ai, ‘tis dawn already.” The slender blond noted, “And your father-by-law the Steward will be looking for you, or Lady Lindorie. She wants you to help her look over the arrangements for the ball during the next council session.”

“Hmm.” Noted Finduilas absently. “Lindorie is much better at that type of thing than I am, but I should make an effort, you are right. Just a bit longer… could you find me the records from when Prince Anarion was holding Osgiliath against the Dark One whilst King Elendil and the elves were gathering their armies?”

Sion sighed and went to fetch the requested volumes. The sounds of carts on the streets, and the bright sounds of morning heralded that a new day had begun, but they did not disturb Finduilas’ concentration.

A deep, half-amused, half-exasperated voice from the outer door, however, did.

“Fin!” Captain Thorongil reproved lightly, “You promised you wouldn’t do this while Denethor is away!”

As her lady turned to answer with a distracted, amused rueful grin, Sion exchanged a relieved smile with Captain Thorongil’s handsome new man Lennart, knowing that her lady was now in good hands. Thorongil had an excellent record of convincing Finduilas to leave her research behind. Not quite as good as Denethor’s, but far better than most. He was a dear friend to Denethor and Finduilas both, and very much like an elder brother to Sion’s lady.


	3. Any Normal Man Would Just Get Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dervorin makes reasonable suggestions, which Faramir mostly ignores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs sometime during Year 5 of the Fourth Age, or thereabouts, later the same week as “But, I’ve,” Chapter 1 of this story. Arwen and Eldarion are in Emyn Arnen in Ithilien with Éowyn, Theodwyn, and Elboron. Aragorn and Faramir are still in Minas Tirith, as the Haradrim Ambassador asked for a meeting with the King and the Steward during the few weeks when it is customary for the royal family to be away in Emyn Arnen.

The letter was written on parchment just thick enough for it to be possible to write on both the front and the back of a sheet. It bore the Queen’s seal, and some royal tot had evidently assisted her in writing some parts of the missive, as there were several multi-colored squiggles on the page, which looked like the work of Theodwyn, and a drawing of a blob with four limbs which was probably a horse or possibly a dog, and mostly likely a contribution of Eldarion’s. However, the end of the letter had evidently been written without the aid of son or young grandchild, and the Queen’s elegant handwriting was thicker, as if she had paused to think over what to say here and there, letting more ink run onto the page as she uncharacteristically hesitated.

Dervorin read on with unconcealed interest while he waited for his friend to finish reviewing other documents. The end of Arwen’s letter stated: “I love Éowyn, you know that, Faramir-nin. She is as a younger sister, or a grown daughter, to me. And I have the greatest respect for her, as well. However, on this one point, she is simply not rational. It is unfair, but sometimes you need to be rational for her. I would have expected greater restraint and wisdom from you, ion-nin.”

Lord the Captain Dervorin looked up from reading his best friend’s mail with wide-eyed sympathy. “So this is what has you frantically reviewing expense reports? A normal man would just go out and get drunk, you know, Fara.” Well, Dev amended mentally, any normal man whose stepmother was the Queen of Gondor and Arnor, and a daughter of a famous healer who happened to think that three pregnancies in three years was unsafe for her best female friend, and that her beloved stepson should have just said “no, dear,” when the witch-king slayer decided that she wanted husbandly affection. No, Dervorin decided, this was probably one of those things that just didn’t happen to most men, but only to Faramir.

Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor, also son of the King and so a scion of the house of Telcontar, gave Dervorin a half-hearted look of approbation, before correcting, “No, this happened before that… I knew that Éowyn would tell Arwen she is expecting again, and I expected that Arwen would disapprove. Eru, Dev, I disapprove, but Éowyn was determined, and, well,” Faramir lifted one hand in the air in a ‘you know Éowyn’ gesture, while he used the other to lay a bookmark in some obscure volume recording rainfall averages in southern Gondor during the prior century.

Dervorin took the tome of facts and figures from his friend, and laid it just outside of Faramir’s reach. Faramir paused in his work, his whole attention now on his friend, and raised an eyebrow. Dervorin gave him another sympathetic look, before stating firmly, “Now it is lunch time. Your step-mother doesn’t approve of you and Éowyn having a third child in three years on the grounds that it is potentially dangerous to Éowyn’s health, but she also doesn’t approve of you skipping meals.”

Faramir rolled his eyes, but made a last few notes and then got up from his desk, stretching, “These numbers are troubling me, Dev. Éowyn’s deciding that now – well, several months ago, was the right time to try for a third child, I realized that my, ah,” Faramir stopped, fumbling for words as he reached for a light cloak, and donning it as they made their way out of his office and into the halls.

“Parents?” Dev offered, hiding a slight smile to no avail as the two took the path through the gardens to the great hall, despite a light drizzle. Faramir knew Dev well enough to know he was amused.

“Aragorn and Arwen,” Faramir corrected with a both amused and annoyed look and an aggrieved sigh, “would not approve. And,” again the uncomfortable, ‘what was I do to?’ gesture, this time with both hands.

Dev loyally repressed a chuckle. Faramir, at the best of times, was just a very modest soul. Not a prude, but not one to talk about what did or didn’t go on in his bedchamber, even with his best friend or his brother. Boromir, for instance, had not learned that his baby brother wasn’t a virgin anymore until some years after Faramir had lost that status. Dervorin could well imagine that Faramir had done his best to talk Éowyn out of having another child a mere handful of months after Elboron’s birth. Dervorin was fairly sure that Faramir’s resolve had lasted longer than that of most men faced with a determined witchking-slayer, but even Faramir had his limits, his weaknesses. Among them was that, when safe and not in the field, he was slow to awake in the mornings, whilst Éowyn was the most likely of all of Arwen’s ladies, and one of the most likely of all the citadel residents, to awake early enough to join the King and his guards for dawn practice. If Éowyn had instead spent the pre-dawn hours waking her husband just enough to have sex with him, Dev was fairly sure Faramir would not have been awake enough to employ whatever birth control measures he might have otherwise used, despite his wife’s disapproval.

Dervorin patted Faramir’s shoulder supportively, “You have my entire sympathy, dear friend. I’d not like to be the one to tell your wife “no” to anything, let alone something as near and dear to her heart as having a large family, and there are times when I’ve noted that your Éowyn listens to, “No, not now,” and hears only, “no.”

Faramir grinned ruefully, “You always were an observant one. Yes, the conversation went very much like that, and then a day of inattention on my part several weeks later, and… now baby number three is due just before Elboron’s first birthday.”

Dervorin whistled. Éowyn was not one to waste time once she had her mind made up. “Has your, ah, Arwen, told your Adar the King?” He asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

Making a face, Faramir shook his head, “Nay, Arwen and I are on agreement on that point, at least. This was Éowyn’s idea; let Éowyn tell him. And Elladan, for that matter.” After pausing to exchange polite greetings with one of Aragorn’s secretaries, Faramir continued, “I’m not looking forward to those discussions- its really none of their business, anyway, nor Arwen’s either. But I understand that Arwen is – and Aragorn and Elladan will be – upset only because they care about Éowyn, and worry over her, as do I.” Faramir paused again, and Dev knew him well enough to read the fears he didn’t speak.

“Éowyn isn’t Finduilas, and she’s not Lord Erestor’s poor wife… what was her name… Lady Taminixe, either.” Dervorin pointed out kindly, “Your wife has borne two children with little more trouble than a mama cat, even though she fought ably and well during several skirmishes while pregnant with Thea. Éowyn’s own daernaneth had five children whilst serving on occasion as her husband’s shield maiden. I think Éowyn will be fine, Fara.”

Faramir smiled slightly in thanks for the encouraging words, “I hope so, Dev.” He said quietly, before closing the subject. Faramir afraid was Faramir quiet, and Dev just hoped that he was right, and Éowyn would be fine.

Both young men helped themselves to some of the fare laid out in the great hall, before sitting at a table apart enough from the other diners to carry on a private conversation. Anyone who really needed to speak to Faramir or Dervorin could easily find them, but third-day lunch was an informal affair. Everyone present knew that the Steward was also available in his office during the morning, and obeyed the King’s wishes that his eldest son and Steward be permitted to dine undisturbed, barring emergencies.

“My worry with the tax rolls came about before this… more personal… issue, was raised in Arwen’s letter.” Faramir related quietly to his trusted friend, “There is something wrong, off, with many of the numbers… from multiple demenses and over various years. I cannot discern a pattern and it is most disquieting.”

“Hunh.” Commented Dervorin, intrigued despite promising himself and Aragorn that he would discourage Faramir’s “obsessive” interest in this “matter that could be put off a few weeks or a season to no harm,” in the King’s words. “And neither your accountants nor the King’s could determine any commonalities in the erroneous entries?”

“They could not, nor can I, nor Aragorn.” Faramir related, worrying a loaf of bread into crumbs as he explained, “Aragorn’s answer is to wait for his big brothers to return, and share the problem with them. I am sure he is probably right, but it… bothers me. I’d like to get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later.”

“I understand, Faramir, really I do.” Dervorin said, buttering another roll and handing it to his friend, “and I’ll take a look at what you’ve got before I leave tomorrow, if you’d like,” though Dev would have to rearrange his entire schedule to do it, but Faramir’s peace of mind was worth it, and Dev was interested, now, too. Faramir’s obsessions usually had a point, after all, “but you’d best start sleeping and eating like a good Steward.”

Faramir gave Dervorin an aggrieved but grateful look, before his gray eyes flickered to rest on the King, across the hall. Returning his regard to Dev, Faramir protested quietly. “I’m fine, he worries too much. And provided that I am not too tired or ill-fed to fulfill my duties, how I spend my nights is really none of his business, anyway.”

Dev didn’t roll his eyes, but that was just because he didn’t want to start an argument. Personally, he thought that his best friend and the King were headed for another of their rare but always interesting confrontations over what was and wasn’t Aragorn’s affair as Faramir’s Adar. On this point, part of Dev was actually on Aragorn’s side, oddly. So Dervorin merely pointed out, “He’s your father, Fara,” you goose, Dev added silently, before continuing aloud, “And you can think whatever you like about what is and isn’t his business, but if I were you, I’d do as he says. Otherwise I expect he’ll be ‘getting to the bottom’ of this matter in a different manner, one that you won’t like at all but which,” Dev finished with a teasing grin, “You’ve become rather more familiar than you might like in the year since he learned you were his son.”

Faramir did roll his eyes. “He wouldn’t do that, not over this.” The Steward disagreed quietly, but firmly.

Dervorin sighed, and made a last attempt to save Faramir from the looming unpleasant confrontation with his father, “Oh, then, by all means keep pushing him.” Dervorin mockingly suggested, “Because that’s worked out so very well for you in the past, particularly in respect of his ridiculous position that you should have a care for your own health and well-being.”

Faramir didn’t rise to the bait, or seem to heed the warning, he just changed the subject, “While you’re away, perhaps we should make a few tweaks to the message network?” He suggested, “I think Kasim worked well last time, so perhaps let’s have him near the border again, in case you need to make contact unexpectedly…”

Shaking his head, and wondering if Faramir was perhaps testing his father, Dervorin turned to thoughts of how best to keep in touch with his friend and Steward (as well as Captain Ethiron) while he was off a’spying. When Faramir’s attention turned momentarily to an argument between two of the pages, Dervorin sought out the King’s eyes, and gave a helpless shrug, thinking, ‘I tried, Aragorn, really I did. But sometimes he just doesn’t listen.’

Elessar Telcontar, who encouraged most of his officers and all of Faramir’s friends to call him by name when the occasion was not formal, nodded in sympathetic thanks, before his gray eyes moved to his oldest son, a fond if exasperated expression on his noble face.

Dervorin, while glad the King was not going to hold this against him, was also glad that he’d be out of town by the time this confrontation reached a crisis point. “Do you ever wonder if you’re just testing him?” Dervorin asked Faramir absently.

“What?” Faramir blinked, confused, “Testing Kasim? Why would I do that? I trust him to be your contact, and part of your back-up.”

“Never mind, Fara.” Dervorin said, hiding a smile as Aragorn approached with his own Captain and mentor, Lord Ethiron.

The King put a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder, and the four men adjourned to discuss matters of state in the privacy of Aragorn’s office. A place where Dervorin rather suspected another conversation about obeying one’s father was soon to take place… although he supposed Faramir could always surprise him, and act like a reasonable man instead of an obsessed would-be archivist. As Faramir turned their conversation to the issue of the “funny” numbers, Dervorin shook his head and met Ethiron’s eyes, silently making the point, ‘See? He is worse than I am, sometimes. I told you that he was.’


	4. His Mother’s Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Aragorn is acutely aware that Faramir is his mother’s son, as well as Aragorn’s. And that is a good thing, and a challenging one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during Year 4 of the Fourth Age, or thereabouts, later the same week as But, I’ve, , and A Normal Man Would Just Get Drunk,. Arwen and Eldarion are in Emyn Arnen in Ithilien with Éowyn, Theodwyn, and Elboron. Aragorn and Faramir are still in Minas Tirith, as the Haradrim Ambassador asked for a meeting with the King and the Steward during the few weeks when it is customary for the royal family to be away in Emyn Arnen. A flashback in this story takes place when Aragorn (as Thorongil) is in Gondor, a little over a year after Denethor marries Finduilas, and before she is pregnant with Boromir, right after An Impulse Not to be Denied,.

Aragorn awoke very early most days. Too early even for dawn practice, too early for the kitchens to be serving breakfast, or for his wife to do more than blink at him blearily. With Arwen gone, he did not even try to curl back into bed, ever-grateful for her presence.

Instead Aragorn dressed, casually but not informally, and went to do some work in his office. He loved the early morning hours, when the sky was just beginning to lighten in hope of the day. He loved the clean scent of the morning, and the quiet in the citadel that thrummed with activity later in the day. None of his family were such early risers save Éowyn, and when she had realized he was often up this early, by some magic she had coordinated with the kitchens, and now there was often a dish of fruit and some journey bread, or something non-perishable, in his office by the time he arrived.

As Aragorn walked down the hall, he hesitated at the door to Faramir and Éowyn’s apartments. Normally, when Aragorn awoke, he kissed his sleeping wife and then, since Eldarion had been born, his sleeping son. If Eldarion awoke at his gentle affection, then Aragorn would spend an hour playing with ‘Darion instead of working, or let the toddler come and watch morning practice from the safety of Magordan’s arms. After Aragorn had learned that Faramir was also his son, he had tried to add looking in on the sleeping Faramir to his morning rounds. He had been successful for the first few weeks, as Faramir had been recovering from wounds and it was entirely reasonable that Aragorn, as his adar and healer, might check up on him first thing in the morning. Then Faramir had been recovered enough that he and Éowyn had been… otherwise occupied, one of those mornings.

After that Arwen had convinced her husband that he couldn’t just look in on his married son the way he did with Eldarion, that it was disrespectful to Faramir’s and Éowyn’s privacy. Aragorn didn’t really see why, in the future he would know to knock. That one morning had been an aberration. That early, Fararmir was asleep and Éowyn usually already awake, but Arwen had been insistent. More, she had told her husband that once Eldarion married, he wouldn’t be able to “count” his younger chick in the mornings, either. Aragorn had reluctantly accepted this reality.

However, at this particular time Éowyn and Arwen were both away, and Aragorn could give into the temptation to look in on Faramir… make sure he was well, that he had in fact sought his bed the previous evening, instead of working all night again. As Faramir had, once this week already. Ostensibly, because of some suspected peculation and embezzlement… of course there was embezzlement. In a Kingdom the size of Gondor, Aragorn would be surprised if there wasn’t. But Aragorn didn’t understand why his oldest son and Steward seemed to take it so personally. It seemed more Denethor than Faramir, to obsess over a detail like this. And Aragorn had already told him… Ada Elrond had always said that Elladan was something of an expert at embezzlement. Elladan would be returning for a visit soon enough, they could share the problem with him, then. But Faramir didn’t seem satisfied. Even so, reluctantly, Aragorn decided he should trust that his son had kept his word, and slept. Besides Aragorn had entirely too much work to do, leftover from yesterday when he’d decided that sharing ale and a smoke with Magordan was more important than reading through dispatches, despite Faramir’s disappointed Steward look.

Aragorn walked into his office and frowned. He should have a pile of dispatches to look through, but they were missing. Faramir might have borrowed them to read last night when it was clear Aragorn wasn’t going to get to them, but Faramir would normally have returned them before the morning. More, Faramir hadn’t left anything in Aragorn’s inbox for his attention. Which usually meant that Faramir hadn’t slept, as he always brought the paperwork for the King right before retiring. Faramir would stay up late and Aragorn get up early, and that’s how they managed to get the business of the Kingdom done, but Aragorn had called a parental veto of all-night sessions when there wasn’t an imminent crisis of catastrophic proportions. He sighed, and went to find his son, and his errant paperwork.

Aragorn went first to Faramir’s office, feeling a bit guilty for immediately leaping to the conclusion that his son had disobeyed him a second time this week. Perhaps Faramir was asleep in his bed as he should be, and had just forgotten to bring over the papers he had put aside for the King’s attention. That had in fact happened, once or twice, and was no great matter. Both of their offices were in secured locations, and Aragorn trusted Faramir’s staff as much as he trusted his own, even when it came to even the most sensitive of missives.

But, alas, no. Aragorn sighed again. Faramir was bent over his desk, red-gold head pillowed in his arms. The ink still wet on the parchment before him. His eldest son clearly hadn’t slept but twenty minutes. Aragorn shook his head, “You’re your mother’s son, you know, as well as mine.” Aragorn remarked softly to his sleeping child, as he looked over the papers in front of Faramir to make sure he had no questions which needed to be answered immediately. “And I like these bad habits in you even less than I liked them in her.” Aragorn continued with quiet affection and frustration, remembering.

Nearly fifty years previous, the morning of “An Impulse not to be Denied,” (29552).

Aragorn, who had been called Thorongil for longer than he’d been called by his own name, stifled a groan as he sat down to breakfast. As a man of Númenorean descent, he wasn’t even to middle age. He was past fifty, but many of his grandfathers had lived to see thrice that age, if they hadn’t died in combat.

His loyal men suppressed smiles, as did Denethor’s eldest nephew, Lord the Lieutenant Celonglor, and some of his men. Aragorn gave them a tired, answering smile. “Just wait until the next time any of you takes a fall from a horse during jousting practice.” He remarked without anger.

Celenglor chuckled, remarking, “Well, my uncle Denethor is due to return later this week, so you won’t have long to wait, Thorongil.”

Aragorn, still recovering from a rare fall from a horse during jousting practice the previous day, clapped Celenglor on the back. Denethor’s nephews were all good lads, but Celeonglor was Aragorn’s secret favorite, and Denethor’s heir until he had a son of his own. Which hopefully would be soon, for a number of reasons.

“I toast your endurance, Thorongil.” Steward Ecthelion complimented, his eyes twinkling. “I rarely made early practice the day after a fall like that, myself. Not once I was past my twenties, at least.”

“Thorongil had to prove he can be just as heedless as any twenty year old, your Lordship.” Magordan commented briefly, with a tolerant look for his own Lord. Thorongil loftily ignored him, long practice having made him immune to such barbs. Magordan had nothing on the twins, and they… well, best not to think about it. They’d entirely left him alone since he had first left Imladris after swearing his love for their sister. And Magordan was right, anyway. Thorongil had made dawn practice as a point of pride and habit. But now, he just wanted to eat a substantial breakfast, and go back to sleep. And he was cheerful because he couldn’t think of any duty that was going to interfere with that plan.

Then Celenglor’s wife, Lady Lindorie, came to the breakfast table, looking worried and strained.

“Lin?” Celenglor asked, immediately concerned. The young couple were very much in love.

“Finduilas is missing.” Lindorie explained quietly, loud enough that only Celonglor and Ecthelion could hear. Thorongil didn’t need to hear; he could lip-read, a bit, and besides, the Steward’s only daughter-by-law was clearly not there. He moved closer, coming to stand just behind Celonglor at Ecthelion’s nod of permission.

“I’ve checked her rooms, and the library, and the solar.” Lindorie didn’t wring her hands, but it was only because this had happened before.

“Has anyone checked the archives?” Thorongil thought to ask.

“No, she was here last night, even Fin wouldn’t have left the Citadel without word!” Lindorie protested.

Thorongil sighed. He quite frankly doubted that. He sighed again as he realized he’d have to leave his breakfast, and that he could kiss sleeping in goodbye until his good friend, Denthor’s wandering wife, had been located. After all, Denethor was a proud man who practically never asked for favors. And he had asked Thorongil to look after his Fin, while Denethor was out on patrol as Captain-General, visiting several different forts.

Ecthelion raised an eyebrow, and Thorongil nodded. Magordan chuckled, and only Lennart followed Thorongil. In the city, he had eventually worked it out that he really only needed one guard, and he forewent even that if he was with a soldier of Gondor whom Magordan and he agreed was trustworthy, such as Denethor.

Surely enough, Finduilas was in the archives. Looking perfectly ready for the day, as if she’d slept through the night, save for a certain manic glint in her eyes and a very slight tremble of exhaustion in her fine hands.

Half-amused, half-exasperated, Thorongil reproved lightly, “You promised you wouldn’t do this while Denethor is away!”

Finduilas gave him a rueful half-grin, and proceeded with Dol Amroth coping strategy number five; when caught in an obvious act of wrong-doing, brazen it out as if everything was going according to plan. “Thorongil! How lovely to see you! You’ve just come from morning practice, I assume. You must be starved – let’s go to that little restaurant by the gate for breakfast. I know you love their custard.”

Thorongil did love their custard, and that sounded like a good plan, except he knew better than to be distracted by Adrahil’s charming children, “Finduilas, you can’t stay up all hours like this without leaving word where you are. Its not good for you, and it worries Denethor, and all of us who care for you. Lindorie was practically wringing her hands again.”

Finduilas sighed, looking a mixture between guilty and exasperated, “When will she learn, that if its likely something will go wrong, I’ll leave a note?”

Thorongil wondered whether that statement was part of Dol Amroth coping strategy number seven, ‘tell them something true but so illogically infuriating that it will make them forget what they were saying.’ Whether or not it was planned, it almost worked. Shaking his head with a faint smile for how much Finduilas recalled her father, at times, Aragorn said, “What could possibly have been so pressing that you couldn’t have waited until morning to work on it?”

Finduilas’ face lit up, as if she was glad he had asked, and Aragorn resigned himself to listening to whatever she’d been researching. He couldn’t dash that kind of happiness.

“Did you know why Orcs prefer to avoid water?” Finduilas asked, near breathless with the excitement of her discovery, whatever it was.

Thorongil smiled gently, and sat down. “I have no idea why. I’m grateful that they do, though.”

Finduilas, “Well, I’ve been researching it. At first I thought it had something to do with Ulmo, but it seemed more nuanced, and immediate.”

Intrigued by the hypothetical, Thorongil murmured thoughtfully, “Water can carry blessings… on some level, those might be anathema, to yrch.”

Finduilas’ smile sparkled like the morning sun on the window pane, as she encouraged, “Really, Thor? Where did you hear that?”

Thorongil winced, because sometimes Finduilas sounded like Erestor or Melpomaen or Elladan in the throes of a discovery, and he missed them. Especially like Erestor, ‘Cite your sources, Estel,’ Aragorn’s tutor had often said. And he also winced because he shouldn’t know that, about water carrying blessings. He’d heard it from Lord Elrond, and everyone knew that Lord Elrond would foster his distant human kin. No one could know his foster-father was Lord Elrond, who was barely speaking to him anyway, so Thorongil mumbled, “Um, a fireside tale, I think.”

Lennart, who apparently had been inadequately briefed on all of this, and who insisted that Lord Elrond was quite concerned about his foster-son, which Thorongil frankly doubted as he hadn’t heard from Lord Elrond in years, besides a one-sentence note, asked, “Didn’t your foster- adar say so, Captain Thorongil? I think I remember him having said so…”

Thorongil said quellingly, “I don’t recall.”

Finduilas changed the subject, and her eyes were sympathetic although she didn’t give away in word or tone that she knew anything about Thorongil’s family troubles. Even though Thorongil rather suspected Denethor must have told her something. Instead, Finduilas said, “It actually might be because the first yrch – or the first few generations of them- weren’t particularly well made for water. In making them the “ultimate soldier,” strong and such, Morgoth and Sauron bred them to be so very densely muscular that they couldn’t float – they nearly always drowned, they were just too heavy.”

Thorongil and Lennart, and Finduilas’ lady Sion, as well, found that a bit shocking, that the Dark Lord could ever have made a mistake like that, let alone his dread master, one of the greatest of the Valar.

“Hunh.” Commented Thorongil at last.

Finduilas gave him her half-smile again, and pointed out, “Just because our enemy is a semi-divine megalomaniacal tyrant and supernatural force of evil doesn’t mean he’s perfect.”

Thorongil fought a smile, thinking that Finduilas and his friend Ethiron, now the young spymaster of the Dunedain, would get along well. Its a pity he couldn’t ever introduce them.

Finduilas, having the rapt attention of her audience, continued, “Anyway, Sauron improved upon Morgoth’s design – but descendants of those first yrch have passed along the warning, and the memory and the folklore is a powerful thing. The Yrch remember that they once died in great numbers crossing water, and they tell their, um, off spring.” Then Finduilas paused, and added thoughtfully, “Poor yrch. Forced by their master to go over rivers, which terrifies them, on his errands.”

Thorongil blinked. He’d had a young private killed by an orc just last week, but Finduilas did have a point, he supposed. In any case, she was in scholar mode now. No point arguing with her, even if she did say the darnedest things. “Um. Yes, I suppose, Fin, poor yrch.” Thorongil commented at last.

Finduilas, registering his lack of enthusiasm, expanded, “I try not to forget that our enemies are our kin.”

Thorongil smiled at his young friend, bemused again by how much she reminded him of Erestor, or Melpomaen, or Elladan in a certain mood.

Lennart, on the other hand, was offended, and had apparently also napped through the briefing on just humoring Finduilas when she was in this type of mood. “Orcs are no kin to me!” Lennart proclaimed loudly.

Finduilas gave Thorongil’s newest man a soft, confused smile, “You are of the Dunedain, are you not, Len?” She asked.

As Lennart politely answered, “Yes, my Lady,” Thorongil recalled that not only was Lennart Dunedain… but he was a cousin of some sort of Magordan’s, and had been raised by Magordan’s parents after losing a mother in an yrch raid. Thorongil patted the young ranger on the shoulder supportively. Time enough to teach him what to say and not to say in Gondor, and Lennart was a good man, a promising young soldier.

With all of that in mind, Thorongil very gently explained, “As we are all descendants of the men of Númenor, Lady Finduilas is probably right, the yrch are all of our kin. Most theories say they were bred from tortured elves and men, perverted into taking a horrible form for Morgoth’s pleasure.”

Lennart made a disgusted face. “Eurgh,” he commented.

Thorongil chuckled lightly, squeezing Lennart’s shoulder gently. “Yes. ‘Eurgh’ sums it up well.”

Finduilas gave Lennart a sympathetic look, though she didn’t stop trying to make her point. “Remembering that the yrch are our kin makes me no less determined to oppose them, and to learn more in order to help you and your brave fellows kill them more efficiently and safely. But it helps me remember… the real enemy is he who makes us have to fight for our peace, for our lives. Not his foot soldiers.”

Lennart, proving again Thorongil’s faith in him, managed a slight smile and a pensive, “Something to think about, I suppose, my Lady.”

Thorongil hid a smile at the look on Lennart’s face. It was always a treat to see someone realizing that he had to rethink his initial impression of Captain Denethor’s absentminded, pretty young wife.

“So, my Lady, Captain, Lieutenant.” Sion proposed, carefully bookmarking and putting aside the volumes Finduilas had been perusing, “Breakfast? We can send a messenger from the archives to let the Steward know where we are.”

That idea met with everyone’s approval except Finduilas’s, as she wanted to check one more reference. Thorongil played the guilt card (Denethor would be so worried over you,) and Finduilas decided that the reference could wait. Soon, the four of them were breakfasting at the restaurant near the archives that Thorongil favored, seated at an outdoor table, admiring the view of the city.

“Days like this, I could almost forgive Minas Tirith for being so far from the sea.” Finduilas murmured, as she poured tea.

Thorongil smiled at her, as Lennart asked Thorongil what was safe to eat, at this restaurant. Lennart shared the same kind of allergies that Thorongil had to a variety of spices and medicines.

“Oh, everything here should be safe for you both.” Sion answered for Thorongil, “All we have to do is have the cook use garlic instead of southern salt.”

Finduilas and Thorongil both looked to Sion in grateful interest, “Really?” Finduilas asked, “I did not know that would work.”

Sion nodded modestly. “If I weren’t a lady,” she and Finduilas exchanged a smile, “I would have become a baker rather than an archivist. I know the cook here rather well, and the only spice he uses that bothers Northerners is southern salt, and he has garlic to substitute. He doesn’t use meat that was preserved in southern salt, because he only likes to cook with fresh. It raises the prices, but it should be safe for you both to eat.”

Not long after, Thorongil was reclining in his chair, replete with eggs and custard and tea and content with the word. Well, mostly content. He was still sore from yesterday, and he was observing with some amusement and a tad bit of worry the shy flirtation going on between Lennart and Sion.

He was in no mood to welcome Celenglor’s cousin, Lord Tarsten of Lebennin. Their mutual uncle Romendacil had been Captain-General of Gondor before Denethor, and his retirement had been under protest. Tarsten had never warmed to Thorongil, who had supported Denethor in that power struggle.

“Lady Finduilas.” Tarsten said shortly, “I see you and Lord Thorongil are having a cozy breakfast during your husband’s absence.”

If you knew Finduilas very, very well, you could tell that she wanted to claw Tarsten’s eyes out. Or perhaps turn him into a frog… Finduilas was a student of Mithrandir’s, and the twins had convinced Aragorn at an early age that the Wizard really could turn folk into wizards, he just didn’t. But Finduilas smiled sweetly, and apparently let the insult go in one ear and out the other. Instead she smiled more naturally at Tarsten’s young wife, Mavina, and asked, “Oh! Mavina, congratulations, when is the baby due?”

Lady Mavina, who had only just had her stylish robes cut in a style to reveal her growing belly, smiled happily back and answered, “Just after Yule. We’re all very excited.”

Even Tarsten’s face had lost its unpleasant, pinched look. He was very fond of his young wife, and proud of his growing family.

“Your older son Brannon is the best swordman in his year at the Academy.” Finduilas gushed to Tarsten, “I’m sure your new little one will be equally a great warrior, with such a big brother and illustrious family to guide him.”

Tarsten puffed proudly, and agreed, and Mavina smiled again as well. Brannon was only her step-son, but she was quite fond of him. They managed to part from Tarsten and his party with mutual good wishes, and Thorongil marveled at how neatly Finduilas had disarmed one of her husband’s most steadfast opponents on the council.

In fact, Thorongil was a bit surprised by what an unexpectedly capable Steward’s wife Finduilas was turning into. She had a temper -all of Adrahil’s get did. But Finduilas could restrain her anger, choke it back, and manage to smile, and say something that wasn’t actively insulting but would cause someone acting foolishly to really think about their behavior. It was a gift that Aragorn both admired and envied. Being around Finduilas and her clever, capable ladies made Thorongil remember that he was Aragorn, and miss Arwen, and the other ladies of Imladris – his mother, and Gailest, Siana, Tauriel, Ambaraxiel, and all of the others. But Arwen most of all.

But Finduilas was like Thorongil’s little sister, and one didn’t let one’s little sister stay up all night without lecturing her. Filling her tea cup and offering her another biscuit, Thorongil said sternly, “If this happens again, Fin, I’m going to have to tell your husband. He made me promise to watch out for you.”

Whatever answer Finduilas might have given was cut off by her glad cry of welcome, and the Steward’s wife was dashing carefully into the street, where she was swept up into the arms of her returning husband.

Gray eyes met gray eyes over Finduilas’ red-gold hair, and Denethor said without words, Thank you. Father told me you found her. I don’t know what we’d do with you.

Thorongil smiled, glad to have been of service to so good a friend. Glad that Denethor trusted him enough to speak in such a manner. It was my pleasure, always, dear friend. He replied.  
Fourth Age Year 4, Steward’s Office in the Citadel of Minas Tirith:

Contemplating Faramir asleep on his desk again, with Éowyn away, Aragorn felt a moment of synchronicity with that long ago day.

A week or so ago, Arwen and Éowyn, both pale and looking like they needed the break from the capital, had left with Aragorn’s younger son and grandchildren for Emyn Arnen. Before they left, Éowyn had asked him to look out for Faramir.

Aragorn, torn between amusement and irritation, had answered, “Of course I’ll look after my son your husband, daughter. I did so even before I knew he was my own child.”

Aragorn shook his head. How confusing this all was. He had made Finduilas and Denethor’s younger son his Steward and Prince. Due to Faramir’s own fine qualities, he had become Aragorn’s friend and tithen gwador. A year ago, almost exactly, Aragorn found out that Finduilas’ younger son was not Denethor’s child, but his own. A year later, they were still working that out. But this… he’d warned Faramir about this. He’d give his son another warning, but this one would be firmer. And if Faramir pushed him, again, well, Aragorn was Elrond’s foster-son. He knew how to push back, even if he preferred not to have to.

Aragorn gently grasped his sleeping son’s shoulder. “Ion-nin.” He called gently, but firmly, “We need to talk briefly, and then I command that you seek your bed.”

Faramir woke with a start, but Aragorn recognized this as a false wakefulness. Introduced to a flat surface, Faramir would fall back asleep with alacrity. Aragorn supposed there was that, at least. His presence must suggest safety to Faramir on some level, if he could lecture his child and not shake Faramir’s sleepiness.

“You’re up early, Ada.” Faramir half-commented, half-complained, with a yawn.

“No, difficult child, you are up late. We talked about this, what did I say?” Aragorn asked, keeping his voice light, but letting his exasperation as well as his affection show through in his expression.

“You told me not to stay up all night dealing with what you feel is routine paper work again, or you’d, ah, warm my bottom for me, Sire.” Faramir answered, embarrassed but dutiful even in this.

Aragorn pulled him into a hug. “Aye, that is what I said and I meant it, but it shall not be a serious spanking, this time. Don’t keep pushing me, on this, Faramir. As your healer and and your Adar, your staying up all night for insufficient cause bothers me.”

Faramir nodded his acquiescence, and Aragorn pulled his sleepy son over his hip, and applied six stinging swats to Faramir’s bottom, and four to his sit spots. Over his leggings, but Aragorn was sure it was enough to let his son know he took this type of thing seriously. But, being that this was Faramir, he spelled it out again, “Go to bed, ion-nin. But keep in mind that this is absolutely your last warning, eh?”

Faramir nodded, his eyes wide, and Aragorn wished irrelevantly that this child of his would ever feel safe enough around his father to let down his guard, and show in anyway beyond widened eyes that he was in pain. Not too much, as this spanking had been far from harsh, just a reminder, a warning. Aragorn pulled Faramir into another embrace, “I love you. I want you well, and that includes well-slept, my dutiful Steward, my dear son.”

Aragorn felt rather than saw Faramir’s nod, and pulled his son gently away by the shoulders, enough to meet his eyes and explain firmly, “I’ll handle the morning’s meetings without you. I’ll leave orders for your squire to wake you at 10:00, and we’ll do the briefing for the afternoon meeting at lunch. You can make an afternoon practice, and still be in time to see Dervorin and your former rangers for dinner before Dervorin’s departure tonight.”

Faramir cocked his head in surprise, “You read your schedule, and mine in advance,” he murmured. Then his eyes narrowed, “You usually read your own schedule in advance, and you’ve been pretending not to know what’s on it for almost six years because you think its a funny joke. Oh, Ada.” Faramir finished, with tired disappointment as well as a bit of incredulous amusement.

Aragorn realized that Faramir would snitch to his secretaries and Arwen, and that his own staff and family would now be expecting more of him. “You’re cursedly perceptive even when you haven’t slept.” He complained lightly, stroking Faramir’s hair and cheek with a gentle, calloused hand.

Faramir smiled, Finduilas’ smile. “Why do you bother to, um, correct me for missing sleep, then, Aragorn?”

Aragorn considered his older son carefully. Faramir wasn’t sincere in this question, or only partially sincere. They both knew that Faramir tended to miss things when he didn’t sleep. Faramir wasn’t stupid, he understood that. So it wasn’t that he thought Aragorn was wrong… it was that Faramir thought this was none of Aragorn’s business. Well, Faramir was entitled to his opinion, but fortunately this was one of those things that Faramir had ever-so-helpfully delineated for them, before either of them knew that Aragorn was Faramir’s father. When Faramir’s father had meant Denethor, who was safely dead.

Aragorn didn’t bother to hide a smug grin, as he explained, “Ah, but Faramir, my dear son, this is one of those areas that we agreed I had a say in. In fact, if you recall, the first year that we met, you told me that I did not have a say in your eating and sleeping habits because I was not your father. And I insisted that you eat, but left the sleeping issue more or less alone, meeting you half way. But now, since I am your father, I think we can both agree that I do, in fact, have a say.”

The expression on his elder son’s face was now entirely rueful, but Faramir’s soft smile in parting, as he went to seek his bed… it was a mixture of Finduilas’ smile and Gilraen’s, and it tugged at Aragorn’s heart. So did the fact that he knew Faramir quite well, and because of that he could tell that Faramir was not really upset, about this. Oh, he was annoyed. But Faramir was also glad on some level to have someone care for him enough to tell him what to do for his own good, and mean it.

Aragorn picked up the dispatches he had come for, wishing that he could have had the raising of Faramir. And annoyed with Denethor for doing such a piss-poor job of being Faramir’s father. If Aragorn had ended up raising a son of Denethor’s as his own, say Boromir, Aragorn would have brought him up lovingly. But Aragorn had had a more peaceful childhood than Denethor… had lost less.

It would have been hard, at first, to raise a son not your own, Aragorn was sure. Denethor hadn’t known that, about Faramir. Perhaps part of Denethor had known, like part of Aragorn had known that Faramir was his from his first sight of the younger man. Still, Aragorn would never have left any child of his, even one not of his blood, in doubt that Aragorn loved him. Nor would Aragorn have entrusted his son’s care to men whom Aragorn and his brothers desperately wanted a few moments alone with in a dark alley. If only Faramir would willingly divulge any of their names…


End file.
